Sooooo, Im on a roll and that means you guys get to benefit from that. Two capters in a week - I think that's a record for me of late. Hope you all enjoy! We're winding down and nearing the end, but there's still more to come! Probably at least 3 more chapters, could be as many as 5. I'll try my best to continue to be this prompt. No promises, but I will try! Enjoy...
The EMF screams mere seconds before Dean feels a strong gust of wind blow past him, hears his brother grunt in surprise and the unmistakable crash and clatter as the shovel he's been using falls to the ground.
Dean tenses immediately, hairs on his neck standing straight up as his fingers grip around the ragged edge of the open grave. He shoves the EMF in his pocket, it having done its job, but barely, and grabs for the canister of salt instead.
"Sam?" Dean calls anxiously. He hasn't heard another sound from his brother and the silence is disconcerting.
"Yeah, right here," Sam answers. He sounds winded, but otherwise unharmed, and Dean catches the familiar sound of a gun being cocked before feeling his brother's hand on his leg, grounding him.
"She still here?"
There's a pause as Sam looks around, but the EMF has gone silent and things seem to be calming down again. Dean already knows the answer before Sam says it. "Doesn't seem to be. But I'm sure she'll be back. We need to be prepared."
"Thought this was supposed to be simple," Dean mutters under his breath.
"We've got to finish before she comes back," Sam says, and removes his hand from Dean's knee. Dean waits, listens, and finally hears Sam pick the shovel back up. A loud crack follows, as Sam slams the tip of the spade into the rotting boards of the old coffin. Once, twice, three times.
And that's all it takes for the EMF to come back to life. This time Dean doesn't just feel the breeze as the spirit soars past. This time he gets the full brunt of the attack as he feels himself lifted bodily into the air and goes airborne.
It's not the worst landing he's ever experienced, and he's still conscious which is saying a lot. But now his bearings are all screwed up, he doesn't know which way back to the grave or the car, barely even knows up and down.
"Sam!" Dean screams, and damned if that didn't sound all girly and wussy. But there is no reply, and it's only then that Dean realizes he wasn't the only one to go flying through the air. There's a slight groan somewhere off to his left and Dean calls out again, a plea this time.
"Sammy, come on, man, answer me. You gotta give me something." He pauses and forces a chuckle. "Blind here, little bro. I can't exactly do this without your help."
Yet the only reply is another groan and some rustling as though Sam is shifting or moving a bit. But he's clearly not coherent; no way would he be scaring Dean like this if he was.
The air has gone still yet again, and Dean realizes this ghost is playing with them, testing them. He vows not to let her win. "Sam, come on. Give me something. Answer me!" Dean calls, turning over to hands and knees and starting to crawl in the direction he thinks his brother is in, continuing to call out to him every few seconds in hopes that Sam will finally answer him.
It's not easy going, crawling over the cold, hard ground. There are sharp rocks and broken twigs mixed in with the mud and dirt, and they slice into his hands, dig at his knees. But he barely feels it as he moves through his own darkness in search of Sam. Dean can only hope he's moving in the right direction, because right now Sam isn't answering and the ghost is still out there, and being together is about the only way Dean can even hope that he can protect his little brother. Hope, clearly being the operative word. What he's supposed to do, how he's supposed to be of any use to Sam when he can't even see to load the stupid gun is a question he doesn't have time to worry about right now. Right now it's a matter of sheer, dumb luck.
Several yards later sheer, dumb luck finds Dean with a hand slipping down over the edge of the open grave. He catches himself quickly, drawing back and breathing heavily. Desperate, big brother logic says to abandon the grave to continue his search for Sam. But hunter's etiquette says he's got to finish the burn before assessing casualties. Sam's not going anywhere, and from the sound of it he's breathing. Taking a few extra minutes to ensure the ghost is gone is a reasonable thing to do.
Dean takes a deep breath to calm his nerves and pulls himself upright. Knowing there's no way Dean can get into and back out of the grave before the ghost comes back again, Dean decides to make the assumption that Sam has uncovered her enough to finalize the salt and burn without inspection.
He reaches into his coat pocket for the salt and the lighter fluid and leans over the grave to fully douse the contents below, emptying everything he's got to make sure he covers the entire body.
"Burn, bitch," Dean says, striking a match and tossing it into the grave. He hears a loud whoosh and feels the heat as the old, dry contents below him go up in flames. The ghost makes one final show, driving her transparent body straight through Dean and leaving an unbearably cold feeling deep inside his body, like sharp fingernails scratching all over his organs and muscles.
He collapses immediately, hugging his arms around his body as he rolls beside the open grave with a moan, chills racing up his spine, tremors wracking his body. Time goes still, laid out like an open wound, and for what seems like an eternity Dean has no knowledge of anything surrounding him. He's not only blind, but also deaf and dumb, paralyzed. He can do nothing but just lay there and work through whatever whammy has been done to him by the ghost in her death throes.
And then in an instant time speeds back up again and all senses come rushing back to Dean in one huge wave. All, that is, but sight. For a moment he just lays there, blinking, still not used to this blindness that has now consumed him for months. He tries once again to orient himself, hands reaching out and pawing the ground around him until he finds the lip of the grave, feels the heat of the flames that continue to hiss and crackle inside.
He's on his hands and knees the minute he hears Sam groan, still off to the left somewhere which, he supposes is a good thing. Means he hasn't completely managed to turn himself around.
Within a few feet his hands slip over the barrel of the abandoned salt gun, and he unconsciously checks the safety before tucking the gun in the waistband of his jeans. Then resumes his search of his brother without wasting a second.
"Sam, come on. You gotta answer me," Dean pleads again. This time his efforts are rewarded with more than just a groan as Sam calls out his name.
His little brother's voice is weak and unguarded, and the pain more than anything else works as a homing beacon for Dean. He turns, picks up his pace, crawling faster in the direction of Sam's voice.
"Again, Sam. I need you to keep talking. Help me find you," Dean prompts.
Another second passes, then, "I'm over here. You're almost to me."
Sam's voice does seem louder, closer, and it's not much further before Dean's hand bumps into a shoe, climbs the obstacle and follows it down to trace the unmistakable feel of thick socks and dirty jeans.
"Sam, I'm here. I gotcha," Dean says unnecessarily. He works the rest of the way up his brother's body in search of his face and stops short at the shoulder when he runs into something sticky and wet, hears Sam's hiss of pain.
"God, Sam, what the hell?"
"Rebar," Sam says shortly, followed by another hiss of pain. "Went clean through and out the other side."
"How bad?"
"It's fine," Sam answers, too quick. Dean sees right through it.
"Sam," Dean warns. "Tell me the truth. How bad is it?"
There is a short pause, another sharp intake of breath. "Honest, Dean, it's just a flesh wound. Didn't hit anything vital, but–"
"But what, Sam? You gotta be straight with me here. I can't see it to fix it so you gotta walk me through this." It kills Dean right now to admit how useless he is, to know that he's not running up to par, can't take care of his little brother the way he should.
"Well, I'm kinda stuck to the ground here, Dean. Got about 8 inches sticking out the front of my shoulder and most of the rest is buried in the dirt."
Dean sits back on his haunches for a minute, runs a nervous hand through his hair before reaching out to gently prod around Sam's shoulder and the rebar as he tries to ignore the sounds of pain the movement elicits. Sure enough, there's a good half a foot and then some of quarter inch rebar sticking out from the front of his brother's chest. From what he can tell, Sam's right, it's only gone through the meat of his shoulder, just underneath the joint, but that fact doesn't make his little brother any less stuck to the ground beneath him.
Breathing hard, Dean sits back again and wipes his hands down the front of his jeans. He's feeling out of control here, helpless and impotent. His mind reels, and it's all he can do to bring himself back to the present and forget about his handicaps. Get yourself together, you idiot. Sam needs you!
"OK, Sam, here's what's going on." His voice is slow, controlled, forced. "The ghost is gone, grave is still burning, so we don't have to worry about her, alright?"
He waits for an answer, finally realizes Sam is nodding instead of speaking.
"Sam, I can't see you nod, remember?"
"Sorry, yeah, got it. Good job." There is enough awe and pride in the response that Dean can't help but stop for a minute to reflect. He's just dispatched a ghost...on his own. Blind. He's not completely helpless. Something in that realization gives Dean the confidence he needs to rally himself for the rest of the task.
"Can you see the car from here?"
"Yeah, couple hundred feet away."
Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, wrapping his mind around the next step, wishes like hell that he had fought harder to bring Dante along. "I need you to be my eyes, Sam. I've got to get to the car, get the bolt cutters from the trunk so we can get you out of here. But I need you to guide me to it, okay?"
Sam seems hesitant when he replies, and Dean's not sure if it's uncertainty over his own abilities or Dean's. But he chooses to ignore the tone after Sam finally replies in the affirmative. Now is not the time to be second guessing himself.
"How's your head? You gonna be able to shout when I get further away?"
"I'll manage," Sam replies. Dean can tell he's forcing it, figures that for as long as he was out his little brother's gotta be seeing double, fighting off a doozy of a headache.
"K. Just remember, I'm counting on you here." It's a cruel thing to say, but he's gotta keep Sam's head in the game, and right now he's just not so sure it is.
"No problem." There's more conviction behind that one, and Dean finally convinces himself to climb to his feet.
It's not as hard as Dean had anticipated it being. Not as easy, either. But Sam's got a good handle on his left and right, the hands of a clock, and he manages to guide Dean the distance to the car without too many slip ups. Dean doesn't fall once, in spite of the fact that he's moving much faster than he has rights to be, but he does trip a few times, comes to an 'almost fall' over several lumps of dirt.
They both assume it's sheer luck and adrenaline that has Dean finally plant both palms against the driver's side window of his precious Impala. He takes a few seconds to catch his breath, return to normal.
"Dean!" Sam calls out to him after he's stood there, back to little brother, for what was apparently too long. "Dean, get your cane from the glove box!"
"I won't have enough hands, Sam!" he shouts back, already spurred to action feeling his way around to the trunk. "I made it here without it, didn't I?"
Sam doesn't have an answer to that, and shuts his mouth as a response. Now isn't the time for argument, and Dean does have a point.
Dean knows his car well enough to have a pretty good idea where he'll find everything. And sure enough, within seconds of having the trunk open his hands gloss over the large metal bolt cutters. Another few seconds and he finds the first aid kit, slings it over his shoulder and hefts the bolt cutters in the other hand before closing the trunk and turning back in the direction he had just come.
"Which way, Sam?"
Silence answers him, and immediately Dean is back on edge, fueled by nerves and anxiety.
"Sammy!" he calls again, louder, and finally, "SAM!"
"Yeah, I'm here." The groggy response is not exactly comforting to Dean, but it's better than nothing at all. He amps up the effort a bit, taking a few steps away from the car in the general direction of where he'd come from.
"You gotta help me get back to you, Sam. Come on, stay with me. You're my eyes, remember?"
"Keep moving straight ahead," Sam calls, voice weaker than it was a few minutes before. "You've got...got a big rock just on your right. Don't trip."
Dean nods, moves to the left a few steps. "Keep talkin' to me, Sam. What now?" He's trying to keep the panic out of his voice, but he's not sure it's working. Somehow Dean doesn't think it's the concussion that's got Sam so weak. It's the rebar; he knows it is. Sam's bleeding out, and if Dean doesn't do something soon he's not entirely sure what will happen - to either one of them.
Somehow Sam manages to stay conscious and lucid enough to get Dean back to him, and the pressure as the bolt cutters bite through the rebar at the back of his shoulder is enough to jolt Sam completely back to consciousness.
He screams and moans and rolls around as Dean apologizes over and over again. "There was nothing else I could do, Sammy, I'm sorry. I had to get you free. That was the only option. Shhh, it's okay."
Dean pulls Sam up against his chest for, careful of the rebar still sticking out of his little brother's shoulder. But this way Dean can feel everything, find everything, and he uses the position to his advantage as he applies bandages all around the wound and the bar, taking extra caution not to jostle anything more than absolutely necessary.
"OK, little brother, let's get you out of here," Dean soothes when the worst is over. He stands, feels around until he's got a grip of Sam's good arm, and starts to pull. "Alright, easy does it. I've gotcha."
Despite his best efforts, Sam still hisses against the pain in his shoulder, and nearly goes back down when his knees don't hold him at first. But Dean's strength is unwavering, and he fights against gravity to keep Sam upright until he can lock his knees and help a bit.
"Alright, let's get you back to the car."
"Mmm hmm," Sam groans, shaking his head slightly. "Gotta cover the grave back up first."
Incredulity is Dean's first reaction, and he can't help the way his mouth gapes open at the sheer thought of wasting that kind of time when Sam is this badly injured. "No way, Sam. I've gotta get you some help. Besides, I think I kinda set the shovel on fire, too."
"You did what?" There is a slight moment of coherency as Sam register's Dean's admission, and he laughs at the thought. "You burned the shovel?"
"Well I didn't exactly have time to climb down and get it. There was a ghost on the attack." Dean defends himself, a chuckle escaping through his own throat. "Come on, we'll call Bobby to come just as soon as we're in cell phone range. He'll finish this for us."
"That's exactly what I was trying to avoid," Sam protests. He's still fighting to turn them toward the grave, but his strength is waning.
Dean hoists Sam a little higher as he slides down some, knees weakening again. He gives a grunt at the effort. "I can't risk you losing so much blood that you pass out," Dean insists, playing one of his few cards. "You've got to be my eyes. We have to work as a team here, Sammy. Without you, I'm screwed."
That does it for Sam, the fear that something might happen to his brother while he's down for the count, and he draws up a little more strength, planting one foot in front of the other and guiding Dean back to the car.
When they make it back to the car they endure another momentary fight as Dean tries to lead Sam around to the passenger side of the car and Sam argues that he's okay to drive.
"You can't see!" Sam protests as Dean manhandles him into the passenger side, props him up against the back of the seat.
"And you're about to pass out at any minute," Dean rebuts. "If you pass out while driving you'll crash the car for sure."
"And if I pass out while you're driving? How is that any better?"
"Because, at least I'll still be conscious. I can stop the car and hope someone comes along. Look, we just need to get within cell phone range. That's still on this stretch of road, right? How many cars did you pass on our way out here?"
Sam is quiet for a minute before he answers. "None."
"Exactly. Which tells us two things. One, I don't stand much chance of running into anyone while out there, and two, no one is going to be coming along to help us. So if you've got a better idea I'd love to hear it. But until then..."
Dean trails off, already scrambling over Sam to get into the driver's side without having to leave the car. The keys are already in the ignition, and Dean turns them without a moment's hesitation. "You've got to be my eyes," he reminds Sam.
Silence follows, and for a minute Dean's afraid Sam has passed out again. And doesn't that just shoot his plan all to hell. But then there's a slight sound of hesitation and finally his brother speaks.
"You've got a straight shot for about twenty feet. I'll tell you when to turn."
Once he starts moving Dean's confidence is immediately replaced by anxiety and he starts to wonder just what the hell he's been smoking that makes him think this is something he can do. The ravine was one thing, all flat and big and spread out. But here, now, he's got to keep the car on the road, out of ditches and away from trees. Not to mention the giant potholes that Sam had been struggling to avoid on the way in.
Dean drives slow, but steady, unwilling to give up now, not able to admit he's scared. He has to keep reminding Sam to talk to him as his brother's consciousness wanes and worsens. They make it out onto the main road, and already Sam is slurring his words some. Dean can only hope that they'll make it far enough out the road to get a signal before Sam goes out completely.